Derek Hale Does Not Escape
by Ebyru
Summary: It's Jackson's birthday, and his cousin Loki is in town for it. Derek hates Whittemores.


**A/N: **_Un-beta'd. This is the kind of thing that happens when I'm bored at work on Mondays. Also, I ship all the things! (If you didn't notice.) Prompts were 'white' and 'freckles'. _

_*AU where Jackson decides against having the bite – following Scott's advice – and becomes another human pack member – a la Stiles. / Sorry for all (probable) OOC-ness._

_**possible spoilers for both seasons of TW, alcohol consumption, swearing, lots of drunken groping._

* * *

**Derek Hale Does ****_Not_**** Escape**

Derek is buying whipped cream – for a pie he'll never admit is for Jackson's birthday – when he comes across Stiles, Scott, and an unfamiliar face. They're both staring at the stranger, looking interested and excited, like he's a big deal.

If he's such a _big deal_, how come Derek doesn't know who the hell he is?

Stiles spots Derek and waves him over. Derek goes, mostly unwillingly.

"This is Loki, Jackson's cousin from Europe," Stiles explains with a huge grin on his face. Scott is smiling wider, too, like they're excited about letting their Alpha meet this super special, secret guest.

Derek looks Loki up and down, unimpressed, giving a half-smile out of politeness – to his pack. Loki grins, lowering his jade eyes. "Jackson invited me to his birthday party this evening when I mentioned I was in town. Will you be joining us..."

"_Derek_," Derek grits out. Stiles and Scott both frown like Derek just insulted the queen or something, but Derek doesn't give _two shits_. As a matter of fact, not even one.

Jackson didn't mention a party, he just told Derek to come over for his birthday. Derek doesn't want to have to deal with more than a few teenagers if he can help it. His pack made his nostalgia for his teen years disappear a very long time ago.

Loki crosses his arms, graceful like a movie star, as Stiles and Scott wait for Derek to answer the more important question. Derek sighs, replying, "Yeah, I'll be there."

Derek doesn't like parties, can't get drunk, doesn't mind being on his own for a night, but he doesn't want to feel left out of the loop. Not this time. Not when Jackson invited him personally.

Loki kind of gets under Derek's skin though, just as bad as Jackson does. Maybe it's part of Jackson's family genes or a requirement to be in the Whittemore family tree.

Derek doesn't say anything else, pays for the whipped cream, and leaves. He'll see these people at the party, no point being redundant and overly polite – it's not his thing. They can explain that to Loki if they like him so much.

Derek is carrying the pie under one arm and a 24-pack of beer in his other. There's no-one to greet him at the door, so he just walks in (with a little struggling). Stiles waves from his spot on the living room couch and Scott nods in Derek's direction, twisting the cap off of Stiles's beer for him.

Besides them – and Loki wherever he is – Derek knows absolutely no-one. Either the rest of Derek's Betas haven't arrived yet, they weren't invited, or they're not coming. Could be a combination; Jackson isn't as much of an asshole now, but it doesn't mean he has to like everyone either. Derek gets that perfectly because he would feel the same way – _if_ he wasn't the Alpha and they weren't his pack members.

Despite the lack of familiar faces, Derek trudges on, trying to find Jackson.

He's not in the living room or kitchen, but Derek spots him outside near the pool pouring drinks into red cups, and smiling in that phony way that always makes Derek's stomach churn. Derek tries to get his attention, but the music is too loud, there are too many girls around Jackson, and he's too busy pretending to be a caring host.

Derek walks back into the house, heading to the kitchen, and shoves the pie and beer in the fridge wherever they fit. If the pie tastes horrible – which, of course not – and looks like a disaster, Derek will blame Jackson for having ignored his overwhelming, Alpha presence.

It shouldn't be a big deal, wouldn't be normally - especially not since this is _Jackson's_ birthday, and Derek feels like he's being The Grinch Who Stole Birthdays – but it is in a way. In a very _pressing_ way. He thought they'd finally be alone or have some time in private to discuss how things are going for Jackson with the pack, how things are going with _them_ – he and Jackson. Because things are clearly changing, evolving, moving forward for the better.

Derek made him _pie_ for Christ's sake.

And isn't that something that other people would talk about? (Or possibly Derek's been spending too much time with those two losers who were the first to join his pack.)

Apparently his wolf has a better sense of self-preservation than Derek does because he's walking to the front door before he even acknowledges he's moved from the kitchen. It just so happens though that Loki is stepping in at that same moment.

Loki takes a moment to trail his eyes, slowly and lingeringly, down Derek's body before giving Derek a very familiar smile. What's with the Whittemore family and their blinding smiles?

"Derek. I see you kept your word," Loki says, hand outstretched in greeting. "I take it you've just arrived as well? Or were you leaving already?"

Derek frowns, but takes Loki's hand. Something odd zips up Derek's wrist, arm, then slithers down his spine at an impossible speed. He yanks his hand away, turning his palm over to check if Loki's done anything to him.

"You're fine, I assure you. It's just what happens when two very special people – like us – touch for the first time." Loki's arm wraps around Derek's shoulders, and he's being led back to the kitchen, still trying to deal with the tingling travelling through his skin at warp speed. What the fuck _is_ Loki?

"What are you?" Derek blurts, not worrying about how obvious he's being when everyone within earshot is oblivious or drunk out of their mind.

Loki quirks an eyebrow and laughs, his head tipping back. Derek's nose scrunches up, his eyebrows drawn together, his teeth baring, preparing to growl. Loki shakes his head. "No, no. No need for all that. I'm not an enemy. I'm just a Norse god, you see."

Derek starts at that, his mouth snapping shut.

Loki continues, "I also happen to be related to one of your pack members, so I don't believe he'd appreciate it if either of us hurt the other." Loki leans in carefully, green eyes fixed on Derek's sour expression. "Now, now. Can't we play nice for one evening? I swear I don't bite, despite being aware of how much you _do_."

The frissons are still ghosting over Derek's skin, just from that one touch, and it's…disturbing. Derek isn't scared of Loki, not really - even though he can sense his power hiding away – he just doesn't like being taken off-guard, and Loki seems to be the master of the unexpected. After Stiles, of course, but that's usually by accident.

"Fine," Derek says finally, shoulders slumped.

It's not like Jackson's paying attention to him, and Scott is too busy helping Stiles get drunk to notice his Alpha. He would notice if Derek went to them, but Derek is _not_ dealing with that storm brewing. Stiles when drunk is a headache worse than having a pack of untrained wolves. And Derek knows because he's dealt with both.

"Good," Loki replies, smile just this side of too wide.

Loki ends up spending most of the evening following Derek around, telling him about where he's from, what he's capable of, and how he arrived in Beacon Hills. He demonstrates, but Derek's claws nearly decapitate Loki when he's not expecting the abruptness of Loki's method of transportation (if it can even be called that).

Who knew Jackson had such odd people already hiding in his bloodline.

Once Loki gets over Derek accidentally shredding the front of his dress shirt – and teleports in another – things get even weirder.

Derek may not have been the subject of many people's affection over the years – Kate didn't count, and neither do horny, gay teenagers – but he can always tell when someone is flirting with him.

Loki's hand lingers on Derek's knee when they return to the kitchen to drink and raid the fridge for something edible besides chips and popcorn. Derek's eyes snap down to the hand, but Loki pretends it isn't there, and, likewise, Derek pretends he isn't curious or flattered by the gesture.

It's silly to think that no adult would ever like Derek, but that's sort of what he expected – having no-one but teens hanging on him for months. It's nice to actually interact and interest someone more along your age range for once. Unless Loki is younger, too…

"How old are you?" Derek says, immediately regretting it. Stiles and his contagious word-vomit; Derek never had that problem before. "Forget I asked, I don't know-"

"It's quite all right. I'm most likely the oldest at this party; I'll be 4005 in a few months." Loki smiles, taking a sip of his weird concoction he mixed earlier. Derek's mouth falls open, and Loki leans in just to push Derek's jaw shut. "I wish you wouldn't make such a fuss over it. In Asgard, I'm still considered a young adult."

"Asgard…"

Derek needs a drink. Too bad it would have no effect on him. Loki crosses his legs elegantly, his knee brushing against Derek's, and he smiles again, looking down at Derek's leg. His fingers splay where they were already resting, squeezing gently.

"I like you, Derek. You've got heart. Not many people have as much as you do. Perhaps Steve is the only one—"

"Steve?" Derek cuts in, shifting enough that Loki's hand slips off his thigh. He was getting a bit too close to Derek's junk there. "Friend or..?"

"Oh, he is my companion. He should be here any minute actually," Loki answers, no hint of guilt or any other emotion in his voice. "I think you'll quite like him."

A man with blond hair, blue eyes, and a welcoming smile steps into the kitchen. Loki's face lights up like Christmas morning, and Derek can already tell that he must be Steve.

Derek feels bitter about having been played, and stupid for thinking Loki was interested when he has a – _well_ – hot guy like that already at his beck and call. It's obviously just Loki's personality, and Derek's been so far away from the dating game (forever) that he couldn't tell. Like a moron, like those two twerps who seemed star-struck, he fell for Loki's charm.

But all that aside, Steve seems like a pretty nice guy. He and Derek could not be more different if they tried, but, somehow, Derek feels like he _could_ get along with Steve. That they could actually be friends in better circumstances.

And isn't that a scary thought? A complete stranger reading you better than people who've known you for years.

Loki introduces them, but his eyes are fixed on Steve as if no one else even exists anymore. And, _yeah_, Derek is back to feeling unwanted and out of place. He needs to get away from this whole mess (and all of the Whittemore family).

He does say goodbye, but only Steve is paying attention and gives Derek a good, firm handshake before letting Derek slip away. Loki hardly waits for Steve to look his way before he's climbing onto Steve's lap and kissing him breathless. He's clearly crazy about Steve, and Steve is a lucky guy to have been able to tie down a man like Loki.

They're good for each other, Derek thinks, trying not to think about how alone he'll be once he leaves.

Derek is passing by the living room to get out – not escape. Derek Hale does _not_ escape anything – when Scott calls his name, still seated on the living room couch with Stiles at his side. Stiles is drunk – very, very drunk if the way his shirt is buttoned up wrong and his shoe is missing says anything – and Scott looks like he's about to cry or shift. Both, in this case, would be a bad idea.

But there's only one Alpha, and his pack members need him, so Derek allows himself this small pit-stop on his way to hightailing out of the party. Scott lifts Stiles from the couch, and Derek goes around them, helping from the other side. Stiles's head is lolling back and forth between their shoulders, but he stops when he's eye-to-eye with Scott.

"I love you man," Stiles slurs, his body limp and heavier than it should be considering he weighs half of what Derek does. "Scooooott, are you listening? I love you. And I know you've had it hard for Allison, but I've been into you for, like, _forever_. Five-ever. That's a thing, isn't it?"

Derek tries not to laugh because, seriously, what else can he do? But Scott is deadly silent on the other side, not even breathing. Then Derek's hearing picks up the fluctuating pulse, the unsteady heartbeat of his Beta, and he _knows_ – knows with a sickening intensity – that he should have just fuckin' ignored his dumbass pack members because he's not going to like what's to come.

"R-really?" Scott stutters, stopping at the base of the stairs, taking most of Stiles's weight at least.

"Yeah. Of _course_. Dude, when have I ever lied to you?" Stiles says, voice sincere and just a tad deeper than usual. Stiles doesn't even seem to notice his Alpha is next to him while he makes goo-goo eyes at Scott.

Not a good sign for Derek. Not at all.

Scott breathes heavily, dragging Stiles away from Derek's completely, as if the Alpha wants to steal his drunken best friend or something. Scott cups Stiles's face, and Stiles hums in response, wrapping his limbs around Scott like some octopus thing. Derek barely manages to slip his hand out from between them before Stiles is thrusting his tongue into Scott's mouth, and Scott is… not exactly turning Stiles down.

That is fuckin' _it_. Derek is getting the hell out of here.

Derek takes a look around the party, just to see if any other Betas need a hand before he leaves, but all he sees is Stiles very thoroughly claiming Scott's mouth. And Scott, the dumbass, isn't bringing Stiles home like he should be, he's carrying Stiles up the stairs to one of the bedrooms, growling and acting like a possessive – _oh dear_.

Derek isn't exactly surprised by the development, considering those two are attached to the hip and have been for years, but Derek always thought Allison would be Scott's mate – not Stiles.

Whatever. Not his life, not his business. They're free to mate with whoever they very well want. (And Derek does not want to get an eyeful of naked Beta trying to detach them from each other to explain what's going to happen between them.)

Now, back to escap- _leaving_ the party.

There aren't any Betas in distress that Derek can see, which means he can go home and mope and not have to worry about driving them back. But a thought occurs to Derek as he has a hand on the front door knob.

Jackson doesn't even know he's _here_, doesn't even know he brought _pie_. He could always take it back, eat it himself, and there wouldn't be a damn thing Jackson could say because he's the Alpha.

Yeah, that sounds like the perfect plan.

Derek rushes into the kitchen, expecting to find Loki and Steve still making out, but instead he finds Jackson there eating. Eating _his_ pie. The same one that Derek made for Jackson, and was planning to take back and swallow down.

Jackson's smiling at Derek when he notices him, and the dark circles under Jackson's eyes make Derek kind of want to slaughter the entire party because isn't Jackson supposed to be having fun, _relaxing_, enjoying his own goddamn birthday? Derek frowns and Jackson swallows, putting his fork down. That's not why Derek's angry though, not anymore.

Derek walks over to Jackson, grabbing Jackson's jaw, tilting his head one way and the next, grumbling when Jackson tries to push the Alpha's hand away. He takes a seat next to Jackson, smelling strong booze all over Jackson. That includes on his clothing. Damn guests couldn't even be careful with their drinks around the guest of honour.

Jackson takes a sip from his cup, the stench of cheap vodka burning Derek's nose hairs. He looks over at Derek, wary of him – like always. But then he swallows and says, "Thanks for coming over and not escaping as soon as you saw the amount of guests."

"Sure," Derek replies. It's more like a grunt really. Jackson smirks, entirely too pleased with himself as he pushes the pie tray towards Derek.

"This is good," Jackson explains, sticking his finger in the whipped cream. "It goes well with vodka, too."

Derek snorts, bumping Jackson softly with his shoulder. He can't tell how drunk Jackson is, and knocking him off of the stool wouldn't be the best outcome. Jackson is exhausted enough without having to deal with bruises.

Jackson clears his throat, leaning in. "I got some really expensive alcohol from a few family members. Loki bought me an eighty year old bottle of scotch. You want to…share it with me?"

It's a tough decision. Make sure your pack member doesn't fall asleep in his own vomit or take your half-eaten pie back and pretend you aren't worried sick over him. Which to choose?

"But don't tell anyone 'cause I'm only sharing it with you," Jackson adds hastily, winking in a cartoon-ish way. "Also, we'd have to go up to my room so that no-one bothers us for some."

Looks like Derek is going to have that drink after all. He heaves Jackson up, not bothering to give him a straight-forward answer, and Jackson automatically starts leading them upstairs to his room.

It could have been worse, Derek decides. He could be looking at Scott's cock in Stiles's mouth or something equally scarring. And just the thought of that makes Derek want to bleach his imagination. It's like a father walking in on his child getting deflowered; you just don't want to ever see that.

But, no, this is less bad – for Derek, at least.

There's cock and mouth and licking, moaning even, but it's not Derek's pack members. Jackson is the one cringing, shouting his displeasure to the high heavens, before slamming his door.

"You owe me a new fuckin' bed, Loki!" Jackson says, stomping back down the stairs.

Derek feels really bad for Jackson now. The kid's house is a mess, his bed is going to be in terrible shape – if Loki goes through with everything he was muttering under his breath – and his body is going to give out any second, if the stumbling is any indication.

What's the point explaining all that when you can force your Beta to submit and drag them away?

Derek takes Jackson by the wrist, and leads Jackson out to his car. He helps Jackson into the passenger's side, and climbs in quickly afterward. "The party is fine without you, Jackson. Let's have that drink at my place."

There's no protest, no complaint, just – just the sweet sound of silence. And then a sigh (of relief, Derek hopes). When Derek looks over, Jackson's head is pressed back against the seat, his eyes are closed, and his face is completely open and tired.

The drive feels long, if only because Derek is afraid Jackson will fall asleep on the way.

The house isn't as bad as it once was. The wood's been changed, the bannisters have been fixed, the windows replaced, the stairs painted and remade. Everything looks almost as good as it did before the fire. And most of it is due to Jackson's (parents') money.

Derek's surprised at how quickly Jackson wakes up once the car is parked, but relieved he won't have to carry Jackson upstairs like an unconscious sack of potatoes.

Somehow, when Derek wasn't looking, Jackson grabbed the bottle of scotch _and_ the shitty vodka. It smells like chemicals and tastes like liquid glue. (Derek had to try, okay? His curiosity was eating at him.) Jackson drinks enough for the both of them, seated in the middle of Derek's bed as if he's always been doing this.

Derek doesn't want to think about the last person he let into his bedroom; Jackson is a much better replacement.

Sitting on the end of the bed, Derek looks back at Jackson and the way his legs are crossed under him, the softness to his face the more he drinks, and the smile he gives Derek every time their eyes meet.

"What? Is there something on my face?" He fills Derek's glass and hands it over. "I knew I should have looked at myself in a mirror before leaving—"

"You look fine, Jackson, just tired."

"I'm not tired. Not really," Jackson mumbles, knocking back the contents of his glass. "I was wondering though; am I the first of your pack members to see your room?"

"Yes," Derek replies, pushing his glass toward Jackson for a refill. "Why?"

"Just curious." He pours more of the brown liquid, stopping halfway. "It's nice." He pauses, looking up. "You're nice."

Derek takes his glass back so he can have somewhere to look other than at Jackson's pursed, red lips.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I never thought you were mean. I just thought you hated me because I was spoiled and selfish."

"I did," Derek replies dryly, rolling his shoulders. He feels stiff everywhere. The scotch isn't making it any better; it's just making Jackson more open, bolder, more…_appealing_. "But not anymore."

"Good," Jackson says, rolling his glass between his palms. "Why are you sitting so far?" Jackson stretches out his legs, nudging Derek's back with a socked foot. "Do I smell bad?"

"No," Derek says curtly, making no move to shift closer to Jackson. He knows where that will lead, and maybe Jackson doesn't want that. Maybe Derek isn't ready to handle that.

Jackson isn't good at being avoided though, never has been. He scoots closer, draping his arms around Derek's shoulders, pouring his glass from around Derek, his lips close enough to Derek's skin that he feels the hair on his neck tingling.

"What are you doing?" Derek growls, using his Alpha voice to get his point across.

"C-can't I do what I want during my birthday?" Jackson asks, voice wavering with the slow build of his interest, his anticipation. "You know you don't scare me anymore, right?" He presses a kiss to the side of Derek's neck, nearly dropping his glass when Derek grabs his wrists.

"What - are you - doing?" Derek asks again, sharper this time. He turns his face to scowl at Jackson, but Jackson's whole body shudders against Derek's back when they make eye contact. He's so close Derek could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose – if he were so inclined to. And, right about now, that seems like a safer option.

Jackson wraps his arms around Derek. "I told you, you don't scare me anymore. Hearing you all growly and dominant like that just makes me hard," Jackson drawls, pressing a kiss to the side of Derek's mouth. "Do you want me, Derek?" He says softly, murmuring it almost, his lips dragging until they're firmly pressed to Derek's.

Derek doesn't answer, just calmly moves away, taking Jackson's glass with him, and putting it on the floor. "I think you've had enough to drink." His skin is buzzing, vibrating, burning everywhere that Jackson has touched. _God_, does he want Jackson. If only the smug ass knew.

"I don't think so," Jackson mutters, reaching over Derek's lap to take back his glass, his hip rubbing against Derek's half-hard cock accidentally. And when did that happen exactly? He's not a teenager anymore; he shouldn't just get boners as soon as an attractive person kisses him.

Not that Jackson is just anyone.

"Oh, _Derek_. Is that for me?" Jackson teases, abandoning his glass to drape a leg over Derek's lap. "I really want it to be," Jackson purrs, his knee pressing against the bulge gently.

Derek growls, shoving Jackson until his back is against the bed. Jackson bites his lip, sucking it into his mouth, tempting Derek to have a taste. He's enjoying this a lot more than he should be considering Derek isn't touching him. Derek feels hips slowly rolling against his own, shifting until their lengths are aligned. Jackson gasps, arching closer to Derek, struggling to break free of Derek's hold. Derek can only watch this like it isn't happening to him, like this isn't a pack member rutting against him, getting harder by the second.

"I want you," Jackson whispers, twisting his hips, leaning in. Derek moves before their lips touch. "I don't need werewolf abilities to know you want me, too. I can feel it. I can _see_ it. Why won't you have me?"

Derek screws his eyes shut. He can't take any more of this. Jackson is going to regret it if Derek loses control because Derek is very, _very_ close to claiming Jackson like Scott is currently doing to Stiles. And _that_ is a definite mood-killer right there. He should have thought of that sooner.

"I do want you," Derek concedes, carefully letting his eyes open. Jackson's mouth parts, his eyes fixed on Derek's like he holds the key to the universe. "I just don't want to do it while you're drunk. I want you to know what's happening. I want it to be clear. And _Jesus_ Jackson, you just turned eighteen!"

Jackson shrugs a shoulder like it's nothing, like he's dropped a penny in the road. "I don't care about those things. I like what I like, and I take what I like. Now, are you going to give me anything?"

Derek shakes his head, huffing out a laugh. "Tell you what; I'll give you a birthday kiss. Okay?"

Jackson rolls his eyes, grinning up at Derek afterward. "Fine." His eyes fall shut and he stops moving altogether, completely pliant and trusting of Derek.

It's a bit too much power for a wolf, for anyone in fact. Derek leans in slowly, careful to keep his erection from eliciting any moans out of Jackson (or they'll both be in trouble tomorrow). One, two, three, four…Derek counts Jackson's freckles to settle his racing heart, pressing his lips to Jackson's once he gets to thirty. Jackson whimpers, immediately throwing his legs around Derek to force his hips in, and _fuck_-

This is exactly what Derek wanted to avoid.

Jackson sucks at Derek's tongue, his cock pressing into Derek's thigh, and Derek tangles his fingers in Jackson's hair, tugging his head back to get at his throat. He tastes like unfiltered sex, raw and sweet, spicy and wild in a way that should be illegal. Jackson shudders when teeth gnaw at his pulse, forcing Jackson to still his movements.

"I said a kiss," Derek barks, biting down harder when Jackson's hips won't stop thrusting against Derek's leg.

Jackson writhes, so Derek sinks his teeth in deeper, tasting the tell-tale sign that he's gone too far: the flavour of copper covering his tongue. His eyes flicker to red, but Jackson doesn't see; he's too busy crying out as his orgasm bursts through his skin, tearing him limb from limb.

"Fuck, Derek," Jackson pants, arms encircling Derek and scratching at the hair of Derek's nape. "That was almost better than your pie."

Derek grumbles, easing Jackson's thighs back down onto the bed. "You knew?"

"Everyone else just bought me stuff. I figured you would make something. And you did," Jackson explains between kisses to Derek's cheekbones and lips. Derek groans when he feels Jackson's tongue dart out. "On second thought, this _is_ better."

Derek laughs, lacing his fingers with Jackson's, sliding them out of his hair to press kisses to Jackson's knuckles. "I think we need to get you a change of clothes."

Jackson yawns, nodding, and strangely looking a bit less exhausted. Derek's not going to take credit for that even though he's dying to.

What's with drunk teenagers weighing a ton? Derek is sweating by the time he's done stripping Jackson's clothes away and fighting off roaming hands, lips, feet… Jackson's already drifting into sleep when Derek finally gets into bed. The humming is a bit disconcerting for Derek until he sees the innocent smile on Jackson' face; he looks comfortable and peaceful, not devious in the slightest.

Jackson seems different to Derek now, and has for some time. Derek sees the good that Scott always spoke of, the heart he's constantly hiding behind a façade. And, obviously Jackson is _gorgeous_, but not just because of how he looks. Derek can appreciate what that means for the pack, for _them_.

"Happy birthday, Jackson," Derek murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Jackson's brow. Hands slide underneath Derek's shirt, petting and stroking bare skin, but Jackson never opens his eyes.

"Thank you for the pie," Jackson replies sleepily. He kisses Derek's neck, nuzzling his face against Derek's throat.

Derek falls asleep, for the first time in years, with someone he _wants_ in his bed.


End file.
